


Royals

by Luce_cm



Series: "Royals" Universe [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Language, Mild Smut, Mobster AU, Post-Break Up, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-07-05 06:24:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15858036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce_cm/pseuds/Luce_cm
Summary: James ‘Bucky’ Barnes rises as a new Captain in New York’s Bratva Family, and although he has a reputation that precedes him and dedication to this life, he cannot go unchecked. Enter Y/N, brought up in the midst of this world of violence and chaos, trained to be a Siren, a woman in charge of charming the Captains, gaining their trust, and ensuring they remain loyal to the family. However, there’s history between the two, and secrets will need to be made and kept in order to keep the world as they know it standing.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I used a mix of real Russian Mafia (Bratva) hierarchy and titles, some of the Italian one, and some I just winged it. I’ll try to tell as much as I can without dumping exposition in you on the first few chaps. If there’s anything you don’t get, please lemme know, comment or go to my Tumblr and I’ll explain and then try to fix in here. Thank youuu!  
> Love, Luce

There’s a part of you that revels in the stares. The jealous glances from those who would love to be in your place, the lustful eyes of those who would prefer to be your boss. There was a time they intimidated you, made you feel inferior, but now you have learned to lift your chin even higher and keep your pace slow and your hips moving as you walk by.

They are going to stare either way, better to keep the illusion running.

There’s also a thrill to be had, when it comes to the Game. Life or death over a tabletop, whispers exchanged to strike where knives cannot reach, facades running the world.

You waltz into Brock’s office after saying goodbye to one of the oldest Captains in office, Lohmer, with a polite wave and a promise to show his daughter around town next time she is in Manhattan.

You hear several voices greet you formally as you enter the room,

“ _Nayada_.” _Siren._ An insult turned badge of pride.

The men inside the office greet you, standing as you approach the couches, ready to play the courtesies needed for a lady taking a seat, but you ignore them and walk directly to the desk, standing behind it and taking a stand right besides Brock.

Natasha straightens on her place, greeting you with a nod and your boss dismisses the other Captains with a gesture of his hand.

Brock starts,

“Have you heard anything about Brooklyn?”

“I have heard nothing _but_ shit about Brooklyn,” You snap, “You need to end this. Soon.”

You know Brock will take your words into account. He trusts you, stupidly enough. You have been his right hand, like Natasha has been his left, for years now.

Both of you brought up in this world as women, pressured by a world seeing you as inferior but blessed with the power your apparent weakness provides. The redhead has been the head of the Avtoritet’s strike team for almost a decade, her aim always true and blood always dripping from her fingertips.

Your work is a lot subtler, a lot more fun too. Trusted with being ahead of every move a Captain makes within a territory that isn’t his or her own, keeping track of alliances, promises and playing the Game that your boss is too much of a brute to handle.

“Barnes will fall when I say so, sweetcheeks.” He answers. You barely keep yourself from grimacing at his choice of words, more a reminder of what foolish trophy he believes you to be than a term of affection.

“Say the word and I’ll have him dead by morning.” Natasha states, but you are shaking your head before she is even done.

The Widow notices, and you swallow past gone memories of a long time ago before you answer with the logical side of you, and not your foolish, stupidly protective heart.

“We don’t have proof he’s moving for Manhattan. Yet.”

“We cannot wait until he’s knocking on our door to strike, Y/N!” Natasha insists, but you still refute her idea,

“He has people backing him. And we cannot take them out too. To mention one of them: Stark. He has Stark in his side, too many of our people depend on him to keep the pigs off their backs.”

Natasha growls, running a hand over her short red hair, irritation apparent on her face, “He’s a Shukher. He cannot be indispensable. He barely got the title of Captain a few years ago.”

_Oh, but he made quick work of it. I know, I learned alongside him what this world is made of, how it works. If I can play the Game, he can too._

But you don’t say that, you cannot play a judge of loyalties when you betrayed a rising Captain barely out of your teens, when you are playing this for your family, for the throne that should be yours.

You wouldn’t call yourself greedy, but you _are_ ambitious. Your family’s territory went to the Rumlow’s on a twisted move by their eldest son, Brock, who became the head of Manhattan. _Your_ territory.

Playing the card of letting your family heal after your father’s murder was a cheap move, but it got most of the Bratva to agree on the decision. You knew it was a subtle way of keeping you from rising to the head of your family, from becoming the first Matriarch of one of the big names in the underworld.

Back to the improvised meeting Rumlow decided to have in the midst of a gala, you answer,

“That’s exactly what makes him useful, Tasha. We take him out and it makes more noise than we can afford. If we get him on our side, we have a good Captain on our back. Maybe an ally. He’s up in line to be Avtoritet of Brooklyn, or so they say.”

“In alliance with whom?” Brock interrupts your discussion with Natasha, and you make a point of stressing the words when you answer.

“No one.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly. Play it smart, we need him on our side,” You insist, taking a sip from Nat’s whiskey and walking to the door, “And you two should get out and mingle, these people aren’t here for me. Oh, wait. They are.”

You own dismissive laugh escorts you out of the room, and when you close the door to the office behind you, you take a deep breath, and change the mask you are wearing again. Back to the gala it is.

_____________

Rumlow finally walked out of his office, charming smile set on his face, brute limbs trying to navigate the Game, but his feet are too clumsy to dance with the facades, his fingers too calloused to play with the shadows.

There’s a part of you that cannot wait for the day his own near-sightedness kills him, for the day he realizes a badly placed word on a night like this can end your life, ruin your family for generations to come; but the part of you that wants to have him watch as you take the throne from under him, the part that wants him to taste defeat for taking what is rightfully yours under the illusion that you are not strong enough to take it, that part wins every time. So, you direct the conversations to you, aid him with words, play the Siren.

You will lure him to the rocks soon enough.

As you say goodbye to the last few guests, taking note of rank and name as you go, you let your shoulders finally drop a bit, your posture become a little more relaxed.

Barton, Clint. A Bratok, but no Captain affiliation. Rumored to be tied to Natasha’s net of contacts. Probably here on an independent mission.

Carter, Sharon. British Firm, no association to Bratva. Peggy’s sister, but lacks the closeness to Brooklyn that the older Carter has. Rumor has it she has men within the feds.

Rhodey, James. Another Bratok, Stark’s right hand man. Surely here supervising his boss’ project. Weird Stark didn’t attend.

The next person to approach you as you say goodbye surely surprises you.

Wilson, Sam. Bratok, rumored affiliation to Captain Rogers. Soon to rise to Captain himself. He’s definitely on Barnes’ side, no need for him to be here.

“Mr. Wilson, I didn’t know you would be joining us. Shame we didn’t get time to catch on.” You phrase carefully, eyeing his reaction and trying to predict his intentions.

“Indeed, sweetheart. I will not rest until I’ve got you performing at my bar.” He teases, easy smile on his lips and completely ignoring the Avtoritet a few feet away from you. You cannot tell if it’s his way of playing the Game or a deliberate move to rise a reaction out of Rumlow, but you take it either way.

You know the rumors of your…close affiliation to Brock, you made sure to spread them yourself. Figured if they were going to take your territory, your title away from you because you were a woman, there was no use on letting them know of what you knew, of what you could do. Like your mother taught you, you were pressured by the prejudice of being weaker, a piece in the last row of the chess table; but blessed with a freedom of movement and a strength few could match. The most powerful piece, she used to tell you, is the one we must save, save for the battle, the move, that decides it all.

So you’ve spread the rumors. Some think you joined him for his ruthlessness, others for the land he claims as his own, a few fools believe it was out of love. It does not matter, because when you go up against a Captain, they see Brock’s trophy, not the Siren handling the security of the territory, looking for loose links. And it is useful against Brock himself, too deluded in the idea that one day he may have your family join his, have you at his side as something other than a spy, to pay attention to your moves.

You do not know if the same foolishness applies to Sam, here in front of you. Your data on him says he may not be an expert in the Game, but he plays it well enough.

With a courtesy laugh, you answer, “I haven’t sung in years, Mr. Wilson. I’m afraid I will have to decline. Again.”

“Well, can’t blame a man for trying,” He chuckles, and thanks the assistant with a gesture as he shrugs on the jacket they put on his shoulders. Leaning forward to leave a chaste kiss on your cheek, the man adds, “Let me know if you come to Brooklyn, girl. I’ll make sure to save you a spot on the right club.”

“I’m afraid my home is Manhattan, Mr. Wilson.” You answer with a sweet smile, although the words are whispered.

_____________

Days later, the growing threat of Barnes’ alliances in the south-west does not cease, and your Boss’ family is readying to face the first war since your father passed away. If Brooklyn’s Captain decides to move for Manhattan he may lose, but the chaos it will leave behind is not something you can afford. Even if you could take over Brock’s throne while he recovers from the stagger of Barnes’ attack on his territory, nothing tells you Brooklyn will not move with more strength to take Manhattan when the crown is exchanged between families.

You are between a rock and a hard place, and you fear all you can do for now is hold on to your place as Brock’s spy and hope for the best.

That is, until the news of a new Siren in training being brought to the main office to overlook operations reach your ears.

You break into the room, and you stare down at the girl they want to call the new Siren. She doesn’t cower under your gaze, but you can sense her hesitance to engage against you. Good move.

“Get out. Now.” You spit, and the girl does, not even checking to see if Brock lets her. Good move too, she’s smart.

“Well, hello, sweetcheeks.” Brock teases, standing up from his chair.

“You are thinking of replacing me?” You snarl, walking closer to him, fire in your eyes and hands clenched. The itch to reach for the handgun strapped to your thigh almost too strong to contain.

“Jealous, baby?”

“Oh, shut up, you brute. You wouldn’t have survived your first year without me. You took my father’s territory and lost half of it! Brooklyn was _mine_ to keep, and you lost it!”

“Careful. It ain’t your family’s land no more.” His voice takes on a dangerous edge, and he may not play the Game, but his hands are stained with the blood of more people than you’ve ever met. You know it is a dangerous dance to go on, prodding Brock, but you had been _so close_.

Turns out he had been playing you the whole time. Luring you in with the promise of an alliance and keeping you blind to his machinations, his ties to the other families.

He wanted to make a Shukher out of you, a dangerous outsider. Made-woman, or man, despised by the Bratva, with no backing from a family, no affiliation. No loyalty.

Whoever was tugging on his strings to make Brock move was smart, and good at the Game. You had to swallow past your bitter pride to admit it, but they had bested you.

Years of training from your mother to become the best at the Game, years of work as a Siren tell you to keep quiet, to pretend compliance and strike when the time is right. But you have seen your father’s empire crumble for far too long, and when you thought you had a chance at taking it back from Brock’s clumsy grasp, he took that from you. Your family’s blood boils under your skin, demanding payment, demanding justice. Demanding vengeance.

“It will always be my family’s territory, the fact that you blackmailed your way into taking it is n-…” Your words and cut off when your back hits the wall, head slamming forcefully against it, prompting black spots to dance in your line of vision.

Your nails scratch at Brock’s arm as he presses into your throat, taking away your air and making panic flood you. He leans in closer, bourbon-stale breath fanning over you.

“You are loyal to _me_ , little Siren. Aren’t you?”

You cannot breathe, but even if you could, you would not bow your head to him. You try desperately to get free, and you feel blood rushing to your face as he presses even harder against your throat.

“Boss, let her go.” Natasha tries from her place in the office, voice hard but you know she would be killed on the spot if she tried physically stopping Brock.

But he does let you go, and although your body begs for retrieve, for you to lean back and fall to the floor and gain back your strength, you continue to stand up. And even as you are heaving for breath, you keep your eyes on his and force a smile on your lips.

Before you can answer, you feel Natasha tugging at your arm, taking you away from his line of sight and dragging you out of the office. 

The Avtoritat’s vioce stops you for a second.

“ _Siren_. I make you personally responsible to what happens with Brooklyn from now on. It was your family’s land, you say. So take it.” Brock calls, prompting you to nod stiffly.

He lets you both go with set jaw and doesn’t move from his place as Nat closes the door behind you. You reach the balcony to her office in seconds, and as you lay your arms on the railing, she approaches from behind with a folder in her hands.

“What is this?” You try reaching for it, but she moves it away from your grasp, green eyes alight with rage as she says,

“What the fuck were you thinking? Going against him like that…he could’ve killed you on the spot.”

You turn to the redhead, and even though it hurts to merely breathe, you force a mocking laugh out of your lips.

“Ha ha, nice try. I can’t die, remember?”

“You can, and you will, if you keep being this stupid. Y/N, it was your family’s name alone that kept him from putting a bullet between your eyes.”

“The same family name he is trying to take away from me, Nat!” You argue, eyes on the horizon, the dull hum of Manhattan’s night life lulling your heart back into a steady pace. “You can’t ask me to let this happen, my father gave his life for this territory, for our business.”

The Widow merely sighs next to you in response. There’s a few minutes of silence between the two of you, until Natasha breaks the silence,

“Who are you loyal to, Y/N?”

Your rsponse is automatic, conditioned, “My family.”

But it is not enough for the Widow. She shakes her head, brow furrowed and eyes calculating. You know her loyalty does not lie with the Rumlow family, but she is responsible, for now, of keeping the Avtoritat safe, ensuring the loyalty of those who follow him. And although she is aware of your intentions to someday move for Brock’s throne, and she stands by you on the decision, willing to take up arms against Manhattan’s Captain in the name of your family when the time calls, she needs to make sure you aren’t playing her too.

“Between Brooklyn and Manhattan, Barnes and Rumlow, who will you choose?” She insists, and you shake your head in confusion.

“What makes you think I…?”

She opens the folder in front of you, the first dossier on _James “Bucky” Barnes_ that was ever written on the first page, with your father’s signature on it.

“There’s only one Princess of the underworld, dear. Only ever was.”

An insult, sometimes a title, thrown upon the young girl who was raised within an empire, brought up when her father controlled Manhattan, moved for Brooklyn with ease and almost conquered the Bronx before he was killed. They called your family Monarchs when you were growing up, your father King, _Korol’_ , and although the Bratva were never brave enough to call your mother Queen, your father’s influence on the business, his explicit consent to you taking over the family, gave you a title of your own: Princess.

“So?”

She takes out a small picture of a nightclub in what you assume to be Brooklyn. The bold lettering on top of it making something within you soar.

_Принцесса. Printsessa._

“What exactly is your history with Barnes, Y/N?”

You don’t answer, taking the picture and inspecting what you can see of the club. You remember that place. You also remember what drove you away from Brooklyn, the way you broke your own heart when you decided to trust the boy with the charming smile and grey-blue eyes. But more importantly, you remember, and you have proof, of your reach on _him_.

A slow smile curves up your lips.

A life in the Game, years as a Siren. Brooklyn will be quietened, or be yours again.

“Let Brock’s new plaything know she can take over my place. I’m going home.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y/N goes back to Brooklyn, and realizes once she arrives back to the neighborhood she called home for nineteen years, that memories don’t always fade away as time goes by, but that sometimes they grow stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so chapter 1 is up and I’m gonna ramble, sorry. Ramble number one, there’s going to be flashbacks in this story, mainly to show her past in Brooklyn to you guys, and they are going to be italicised. Thank you for paying attention!  
> Ramble number two, this story is already outlined and somehow written, because I have the self-control of a puppy on a sugar high and I’ve forgotten to eat, breathe, and sleep since I got the idea for this, so that’s another one. It’ll probably be 8-10 chaps with an epilogue.  
> Ramble number three is just that I really want to hear your thoughts on this, and that anything, seriously any kind of feedback give me life and pushes me to keep writing and posting. Thank you for giving this story a chance.  
> Love, Luce.

You cannot keep your eyes from taking in what once was your city, the place you grew up in, as the car drives by the familiar streets.

You remember peaceful nights spent sneaking out of your house, wandering the city with Peggy at your side, talking about everything and nothing, arms linked together and hair wild, faces devoid of makeup and souls devoid of masks.

Of course, your mother would catch you almost every time, scold you for acting so improper, for rising your life for the unnecessary commodity of freedom.

That’s what you miss the most about Brooklyn, maybe. The fact that it was the last place you felt actually free in. Of course, life wasn’t easy, of course you were already a part of the Game and a great player at that, but…it always felt like you had one foot out the door, at least while you were here, home.

You had Peggy guarding your back, her stern glare but kind eyes always there for you, catching you if you were to fall. And yes, nowadays you have Natasha as a shoulder to lean on, but as much as you may trust the Widow to have your back if your family ever calls for her aid, there’s a part of you that wouldn’t trust her a secret that belongs to you, Y/N, not the Siren, not the Captain or the would-be Avtoritat.

Actually, Peggy was the first one to say you would become Avtoritat, she was the one that stood by you and denied you the title of Princess, always believed you would be Queen of this territory, if anything.

______

_“I’m barely a Captain, and only eighteen, Peg. Be serious here.” You groan, falling backwards on the bed. The British scoffs at you, still pacing the room._

_“What stopped your father from moving upwards this young? Nothing. Why wouldn’t the same apply to you?”_

_“You know why.” A thousand voices speak through you. A lady shouldn’t hold a gun, any self-respecting dame would let her man do the dirty work._ The Bratva will never kneel before a woman.

_“And I say it’s all bloody excuses. They are too cowardly to admit you are the next head of the Empire, but I am not,” She spits back, and you cannot contain the smile at your bestfriend’s fury over decisions that would not be made for years to come. “They wanted my vote and they have it, you will be Avtoritat when your father retires, and I will be right next to you.”_

_“Does the Firm support that, Peg?”_

_“The Firm can go to bloody hell, for all I care, once my sister is out of school, all my family will be with the Bratva, and the Firm long forgotten.”_

_“Too early to speak of this anyways.” You state, eyes on the ceiling of your room, and you hear a sigh coming from the British woman._

_“Early enough for them to start trying to take you out,” The bitterness in her voice is not lost, and you feel the bed dip as Peggy lays down next to you. “Remember your strength is_ here _, if anything. You know Brooklyn, the children that will grow to Captains are your childhood friends, the informants are in your pocket, the Game is yours to win here.”_

_“You’re saying if I go to Manhattan I’m going to fall.”_

_“No, I’m saying Brooklyn will.”_

______

You wonder what she would say now. Where would she stand, were she to know what you plan on doing?

Would she still look at you and see someone able to handle the crown, or would she too see Brock’s Siren and nothing more?

You shake the thoughts out of your head, focus on the present and not the possibilities. The facts are that your childhood friend hasn’t been it since you left Brooklyn to never come back, almost eight years ago; you haven’t talked past exchanged pleasantries on galas and faked smiles for the sake of the Game. You know for a fact that she would raise her gun against you, were you to force her hand, were you to put her family at risk.

And it is exactly what you are here to do.

______

There’s something truly heartbreaking, in coming back to a place where you thought you were so happy, where you thought everything had been perfect, and be forced to stand at the edge of memory lane and realize that the thing that made those memories so precious was nothing but distance. Distance blurred your sight of this place, of all the things you lived here, softened the edges of every open wound and every ragged cut that this city left on you.

You ask the driver to drop you off on a far end of the city, close enough to your old house that you can walk there, but far enough that no one will fuzz over the return of the Princess of Brooklyn just yet.

You will deny to your very own grave that you took this path to go by the old diner you used to visit with Peggy and the boys, but as you pass before that shiny sign you cannot help the wave of nostalgia to crash over you.

______

_You enter the diner and Pop greets Peggy with a big smile, promising a ‘welcome back’ milkshake is on the way. She straightens her dress skirt and you are opening your mouth to ask why she’s acting so…unlike her when you catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and short brown hair, and you understand._

_You turn your head to see Bucky and Steve walk into the place, and you hide a smile at the horrible way Steve tries to pretend not to notice Peggy sitting on the booth next to yours._

_Furrowing your lips to hide a smile, you swirl in the booth and turn your back to the boys, engaging into conversation with Peggy again._

_A voice you sadly know too well by now interrupts your conversation._

_“England was too boring for ya, Carter?” Bucky asks, leaning on the table and smiling charmingly at both you and Peggy._

_She narrows her eyes in response, “Considering I wasn’t busy all the time cleaning after your bloody mess, yes, it was.”_

_“I missed ya too, Pegs.”_

_Her nose furrows adorably as she retorts, “Don’t call me that.”_

_But Bucky has already focused his attention on you. His hand closes over yours where it rests on the table, prompting you to lift an eyebrow and look slowly from the place where your hands meet to his smiling face._

_Not missing a beat, you move your hand away, keeping your eyes defiantly on his as you do so._

_“Was there a reason for that or…?” You leave the question hanging, eyes cold as you regard the smug man in front of you._

_“Thought I’d ask ya to go for a walk with me, princess.”_

_Peggy narrows her eyes at Bucky, although her lips are pulled into a smile, “Didn’t she hate you?”_

_He shrugs in an unconcerned response, eyes still on you, “I’m workin on it.” He confesses, confident twist of his lips that you irk to slap away._

_But you grind your teeth and put on a smile, your eyes travelling from his extended hand to his self-satisfied face and back to his hand, until you finally take it._

_You leave the diner behind you quickly, and you hide a smile at how many un-ladylike things Peggy is going to yell at you after she figures out the little stunt you just pulled._

_“If I had known Carter was what it took to get ya to take me on a date, doll, I would’a-…”_

_“Oh, scram, Barnes,” You growl, letting go of his hand. “You know I’m doing this for Peggy.”_

_“I didn’t see her stretchin those pretty lips’a yours on a smile for me, princess.”_

_“Like you didn’t interrupt so Stevie could talk to her alone.” You spit back, eyes narrowed on his direction, following his movement as he leans his shoulder on a wall, smile dropping._

Knew I would get you to drop the mask, Barnes.

______

You walk by the diner, by the familiar streets and ignore the few familiar faces that turn your way, checking if they actually saw you or if it is just a mistake on their part.

You keep walking, quickly entering the familiar path of your family’s mansion. There’s still staff inside, as always, even though your mother is grieving somewhere in Europe and you have moved to Manhattan.

They greet you with kind words and smiles, only a hint of fear in the eyes of the newest additions, and usher you to your old room to refresh. It is all as it was the day you left.

Right before you close the door behind you, one of your father’s most trusted servicemen smiles your way warmly, and whispers,

“Welcome home, Captain Y/N.”

______

_The sound of chatter and dull murmurs quietens as your father clears his throat as he walks towards the scenario where the band was playing._

_“Captains, my friends, my family, I humbly ask for your attention,” He starts, easy smile on his lips as he addresses the crowd. There was always a part of him able to so easily charm the crowds, even if your world ignored it for the sake of keeping the façade of the ruthless Avtoritat. Your father continues, “One of the most sacred things to a Bratva’s life has always been, and will always be, his family. It fills me with pride and delight to see my daughter rise today as a Captain within our ranks._

_Your mother gently takes your hand and guides you to the stage, years of training in the Game prompting you to smile as you cross the room and face the people that will either make you or destroy you once you are left in charge._

_“The first dame that rises as a Captain in the whole of Brooklyn and Manhattan, that is a badge of pride no one will take from you,” He turns to you, glass in his hand and you do the same, raising the cup and facing your father’s eyes as he continues the ceremonial speech, “May your aim always be exact, your secrets preserved, and your allies true, my daughter.”_

_“Long may she reign!” Peggy yells from somewhere in the crowd, forcing a more genuine twist out of your smile at her dab at your title of royalty within the underworld. Your father breathes a laugh at her words, and nods._

_He leaned in, almost a whisper as he added when your glasses clanked together, “May the Queen overthrow the Game.”_

_It is hours later that you finally let yourself believe what happened. Sitting on the dusty rooftop of Bucky’s apartment building, his arm over your shoulders and your best friends around you._

_“Can you believe it, Stevie? My girl’s a Captain.” Bucky proudly boasts, bringing you closer and laying a kiss on the top of your head. The blond rolls his eyes at his friend’s antics, but smiles nonetheless._

_“That I can believe. What I can’t believe is that she’s still handlin’ your shit, jerk.”_

_Bucky laughs, but doesn’t respond, although you have the feeling he’s flipping Stevie off over your shoulder. Choosing not to say anything, you take a small sip of Bucky’s beer as you turn your eyes to Brooklyn’s skyline._

_“So what is it like?” Peggy asks, leaning forward, eyes bright and hair loose, “The ceremony?”_

_“Oath of silence, Peg, I can’t say a thing.” You whisper, a smile teasing your lips before you continue, “Nothin’ special, though. Only a few Captains and the Avtoritat, I recite the oath and I’m Captain.”_

_“Thought you were gonna keep silent.” Bucky states, eyebrow lifted._

_“Are you going to rat me out, Barnes?” You tease back, looking up at him with a smile. When you notice the reddish tint on his jaw, you try cleaning it up with your hand, even though the sight of your lipstick marring his skin makes something spark within you._

_Bucky catches your hand before you can completely erase the mark though, and smirks your way, eyes half-lidded and focused on your lips._

_“Mhm, you’re gonna have ‘ta buy my silence, doll.”_

______

It is good, though, to see what was the home you grew up in be kept alive, it makes you feel as if time could be ignored, as if the clocks could stop and you are again the innocent girl running from Peggy through the hallways with her hair a mess and a smile bright on her face, her bestfriend on her track after she mocked her accent.

After touching up your make-up and hair, you walk out and ask for your old car, and after taking some files and contact names from your father’s office, you head to your apartment, that the staff has promised is tidied up and waiting for you.

But as you step in, walking into the living room area, you wish you would’ve come clean yourself. So you could’ve seen the specs of dust, smelt the suffocated smell of windows left unopened for almost eight years. So you wouldn’t feel like you just walked into a memory.

A dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Make the Pawn a Queen, the Queen a Pawn, exchange masks if you want a chance to win.  
> Also, random thought: Did Past!Bucky get off on his girl being a Captain? Yes, in the name of Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ YES.  
> Thank you for reading! Love, Luce.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are aware the Game needs to start, the Siren needs to know what is boiling beneath Brooklyn’s calm facade. So, you visit Printsessa, the nightclub with your name on it, expecting to get under Captain Barnes’ skin, know a bit of the secrets he holds so close. Problem is, you fear you haven’t let go of the feelings of oh-so-long ago.

The memories try to drown you, drag you back to the hazy nostalgia of a past long gone, taunt you with questions of what if’s. But you push past them.

You are not here because of sentiment, those are for people that do not live in your world, people that would not survive a day in the underworld. You are here on a mission, here as the Siren, not the foolish girl with an easy smile and even easier heart. You are here to detect Brooklyn’s weak points, here to finally uncover what Barnes’ and his Captains’ intentions are towards Manhattan.

You are here to take Brooklyn back, and you will take it from Captain Barnes’ dead grip if you must.

The dull sound of mixed laughter and voices helps you pretend this is another gala, another meeting with a potential traitor. Another task, another mission.

Teasing the rim of your glass with a manicured finger, you find yourself well aware -and quite thankful- for the glances thrown your way as you sit near the bar, black dress hugging your figure and your Y/HC hair styled in pristine but loose curls, your lips painted a deep shade of red.

You are aware news spread fast, faster if you take into account the show you put into having the Princess of Brooklyn waltz right into the most popular nightclub in town, that with her name on it. The right people would ponder at what it means but keep it quiet, the rest would gossip unknowingly and help the Game start.

And you are not stumbling in blind. You did your research, asked enough people, whispered enough promises. Barnes apparently frequents this place quite often, his jewel out of the few nightclubs spread through the city with his mark on them.

Apparently, a heist gone wrong had set the Captain off, and you had to delay your first move a few days because he had been injured.

Which he shouldn’t have. Most Captains, once high enough on the food chain, relinquish manual work to their Bratov, and stick to handling the more…safe side of the business. It irked you, it meant he had a good standing in the lower ranks of the Brooklyn Bratva, because he was playing the ‘man of the people’. But you were going to win at the end, Barnes could dance around the table all he wanted, but he was going to be forced to make a move soon.

So you sit in a far-away table, close to one of the bars but far enough from the sea of people dancing and laughing to be able to work without distractions.

You don’t expect Bucky to approach you, because even if your teenage years would be proof enough that he is one to enjoy the chase, you bet the Captain is less than happy to have you in his city. Not that he will admit it, though. He plays the Game excellently, after all, and too many cracks in his armor are well in sight for you, so he will not risk another.

One of the waiters approaches you, kind smile on place and a tinge of fear in his eyes -so they _do_ know your face- as he places another drink on your table, a small note written under the cup.

“From the gentleman in the corner.” The boy says, staying close by to receive your answer to the gifted cocktail.

_Welcome to Brooklyn, girl. Turns out you didn’t need help finding the right club, am I right?_

You discreetly look over your shoulder, spotting Sam Wilson a few tables away, more in the center of the commotion, knowing smile on his lips but you focus on the way his eyes stay rooted on yours, an unsaid threat in those dark pools.

“Tell Mr. Wilson I appreciate the welcome, but I will have to refuse the drink. I am not here to stay.” You state, eyes on the Bratov on the other table and expression set on defiance as you stare him down.

“Aw, won’t even make an exception for me, princess?”

You turn around to face the man with the voice that has haunted you for too long, even if you are not willing to admit it. Bucky stands right behind your seat, dark suit jacket over his broad shoulders, where before there would have been a simple shirt, now his body is more muscular, lined perfectly with a suit; hair the same soft brown you remember, this time combed back and neatly arranged, no longer the messy short locks you used to run your fingers through; eyes…eyes the same grey-blue you love, only now tainted with a life in the underworld, distant and calculating.

Somehow, you find this to be better, you find it helps playing the Game easier, you find almost no trace of the past on him…and it helps.

“Oh, I don’t know. A dame can only wait for _so long_.” You answer, easy smile on your lips as you meet his eyes, trying not to linger too much on the thought that this is the first time you have seen him in the flesh in eight years.

Bucky returns the smile easily, a tilt to his head, chin slightly shifted, and you are face to face with the cocky teenager from the bad part of Brooklyn once again.

“I’m sure it was me ya’ were waitin’ for, doll.” He answers with a sneer, a dismissal of your careful attempt at flirting. It sets you on edge.

Because as your eyes meet, you notice this time, there’s a coldness, a hardness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. There’s a Captain in the place of the boy you knew, a man that is not chasing after a skirt to go dancing with, but analyzing the possible threat you present.

And you cannot have him thinking like a Captain, not tonight. Not if you want an advantage.

Funny, that you are the one doing the chase now.

________

_“One date. Just one, you can tell me to scram after I leave you at the door.” He tries, and you roll your eyes, a smirk playing on your lips as he leans over the table and closer to you._

_“I would’ve thought rejection would sting a little at this point, Barnes.”_

_His eyes sparkle when he laughs a little through his nose, lips pulling into an easy smile. You hate that you notice, you hate that your eyes travel down to his plump lips, and you wonder what kissing them would be like._

_“What can I tell ya, princess, I’m a persistent man.” He answers, glint on his gaze that doesn’t even dim as you roll your eyes his way._

_“You mean stubborn.”_

_He shrugs, keeping his defiant stare on you, “Still haven’t answered, sugar.”_

_“I have, thousands of times. Go chase another skirt, Barnes.” You mumble, taking the straw into your mouth and looking out the window of the diner, eyes lingering on a little girl that wobbles through the streets with her mom._

_“Jealous, princess?” He teases, and your attention is brought back to the conversation, if only to have you scoffing and dismissing him with a wave of your hand._

_“Oh, please. You are not that lucky, and I am not that desperate.” You say, a finality in your tone that ends the discussion for now, and you quietly turn your eyes back out of the window._

_After a few minutes, Bucky clears his throat, and you see from the corner of your eye that he moves nervously in his seat for a beat before speaking._

_“Y’know I’m not playin’ around, right, doll?”_

_You can hear the true concern in his voice, the seriousness, the care he so rarely lets shine through the mask, but you still lower your gaze to your hands. Of course you know he hasn’t gone out with any other dame for a while, since before you even admitted to liking him in Stevie’s birthday party a few months ago. You have been dragging your feet on this, not because you don’t trust him, but because you don’t trust yourself._

_Maybe it’s this world you live in you don’t trust. Maybe if you were just a girl and he was just a boy you would say yes without a second thought. Maybe._

_Still, Bucky persists. He offers his arm out to you each time you go out with Steve and Peggy, greets you with a smile and a chaste kiss on your cheek every morning, and a thousand other little gestures no one would’ve believed him to be capable of, or willing to do._

_Almost every day of the last few months you have been together, sitting somewhere on the piers, sharing a drink at your favorite diner or wasting time in the park. You talk, joke and your heart skips a beat every time he smiles your way. Neither of you would admit that what you had been meeting on were dates, however. Him, too wrapped up in the idea of taking you on some idyllic date you would never forget, and you too scared on what it means to be someone’s girl._

_“C’mon. One date.” He insists, bringing you back to the present by reaching over the table and holding your hand in his own._

_“Why? We already spend time together, Bucky.” You say, brow furrowed and eyes too cowardly to look into his own, so you choose to watch the contrast between your manicured fingers, your mother’s ring adorning your index, and his calloused hands, the faint scars on his knuckles._

_His shoulders move in a deep breath, and you notice even though your eyes remain lowered._

_“I wanna make it right for ya,” He explains, “Take you out, show off my girl, have ya introduce me to your old man like your fella. The whole deal.”_

_His last little fantasy surely brings a laugh out of you. He talks as if he doesn’t know of his reputation, as if he doesn’t know he is the last person your father would want for you._

_“My father will shoot you in the spot if he finds out.”_

_He laughs in response, squeezing your fingers gently, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been told I’m quite charmin.”_

_Your eyes narrow, and the corner of your lip turns into an uncontrollable smirk. Finally raising your eyes to his, you give in._

_You try convincing yourself that this isn’t a mistake, try telling yourself that nothing will change. Try believing that this is something real, something that will endure._

_“I don’t do dancin, not on the first date.” You mumble. There’s a beat of hesitance before Bucky nods slowly. You can see the trepidation, the hope in his eyes, but even as he listens to your words, there’s doubt in his voice as he answers,_

_“Sure.”_

_“I’m free next Friday. You better charm me, Barnes.”_

_A slow smile spreads across his lips, and as you watch his eyes light up you ponder why you didn’t agree earlier._

_“Whatever you want, princess.”_

________

So, you put on a smile, letting the tip of your tongue tease at the deep red lipstick on your lips and delighting yourself in the way his dark gaze follows the movement with rapt attention.

Your eyes subtly travel to the table far away where Wilson was sitting, but only to find no trace of the Bratov.

After a few instants, Bucky motions swiftly to the table in front of you. Of course, never one to back down, you nod at him and allow him to take a seat.

You try not lingering in the way his broad shoulders move, the way the muscles ripple and twitch as he removes his suit jacket and sits in front of you in his pale vest and white shirt. Obviously, you fail, your eyes trailing a hungry path over the now broader, more muscular body of the man you once thought you knew.

But you do not let it bother you. After all, lust was never an inconvenient when it comes to the Game.

“What’s brought you to these slums, doll?” He asks, a simple hand sign to the bartender and he is quickly brought his drink. Whiskey, neat. You hide a smile at his predictableness.

“Needed a breather. Figured I could find a place to get away in this hellhole you call your city.” You answer, eyes wandering through the place. Bucky leans closer to you on the table, eyes intense and voice as low as you’ve heard it.

“Gettin’ away from that brute hubby’a yours?”

The words are leaving your lips before you can even process it, and you force yourself to take back control over the part of you that is still a foolish kid running down Brooklyn’s streets, hair wild and smile genuine. “Jealous?”

He doesn’t back down, doesn’t show a hint of being caught off guard. And that is his tell that you actually did throw him off.

“Just answer the question, angel.”

Shrugging, you take another sip of your drink and make him wait before you finally answer, “Maybe.”

A couple of girls quite nearly run by your table, laughing drunkenly as they leave the place with fingers intertwined. They put a halt on the teasing edge of the conversation, giving Bucky a chance to turn it back to the honest answers he was searching as he first approached you in the bar.

Which is something you cannot afford right now. He needs to be blindsided, to easily follow your lead as you drive him to your side.

But his words cross the space between you before you can think of a way to distract him.

“Has he hurt you?”

You are thrown back by the sincerity in his voice, by the concern in his grey-blue eyes. It takes you a few seconds to clear your mind from the stupid and hopeful rambles of your persistent heart, and you feel the mask of the Siren quiver for a moment.

But you recover quickly with a scoff, denying him a chance to play you.

“Oh, don’t be so ready to wage war on my name, Barnes,” And just because you can, just to prove yourself some point, to give back the feelings of nostalgia you don’t want, you add with a sneer, “I chose to go with Brock.”

Bucky leans back, cold smile on place as he regards you with hardened eyes.

“Of course you did. ‘Cause why would you stay, am I right?”

Frowning, you finally feel the façade fall, and all you can do is try and keep your voice low as you retort,

“Are you really turning this on me? You never gave me a reason to stay!”

Bucky breathes a bitter laugh through his nose, downing the rest of his drink in one gulp and setting the glass down with a loud clanking noise. You focus your attention in his hand for a second, and notice the white-knuckled grip on his glass.

“You’re right, sugar, I didn’t.” He answers, smirk on his lips and eyes set with defiance on yours.

Shaking your head, you grab your top and stand up, moving for the exit when a mumbled word by the man you once thought yourself able to love stops you dead on your tracks.

If he said what you thought you heard…no, Bucky would never call himself that.

Turning to him, you watch him twirl the empty glass on his grip, and narrow your eyes when you ask,

“What did you say?”

“ _Shukher_. Made-man. Isn’t that what you call me in your precious little palace? No family to back ‘im up, no use for the princess of the underworld to lose time on such a fella.”

“That’s not what it was about!”

At the heat behind your words, he turns around to face you, jaw clenched and a mix of old-wounds and rage making their way to his always betraying gray-blue eyes.

“Was it about Brock then? Tell me, how much of his territory did he promise ya’ to open those pretty legs’a yours, princess?”

Your hand makes contact with his cheek before you can even notice your arm moving, a fine red line on the place where your ring tried piercing his skin with the force of the slap.

“More than you could ever.” You sneer, letting the Siren take over as you turn your back to him for a second time and walk away.

This time the stares do nothing but put you on edge, make you feel you just lost the first round, make you feel you left a very important piece uncovered.

Because they are not seeing the Princess of Brooklyn put their Captain in place, they are seeing a broad letting go of her grip on herself and making a scene. It has always been like this in this Game, one mishap and you will be harshly judged, punished with whispers and stares for the unforgivable sin of being human.

________

You walk the streets alone, promising your family’s driver you will enjoy the night and that you will be safe with a sweet smile.

Once the car drives off, and your hurried steps make the nnightclub in the distance smaller and smaller, the prying eyes and treacherous voices away from you again; you find you breathe for the first time since you saw Bucky again.

He shouldn’t be able to make you lose control, lose sight of the goal at hand so easily. Years have gone by, years watching your back and playing with Brock ‘Crossbones’ Rumlow as if he were a puppet and a few words on the lips of Brooklyn’s Captain manage to bring the mask of the Siren down.

Maybe you rushed into this, maybe you should’ve done your research better, maybe there was a way to work around Brooklyn’s future without coming face to face with Bucky Barnes.

Maybe there was, but you know deep down there was a part of you that needed to see him. You needed to know if there was a speck of something left after eight years apart, eight years of distrust and anger and resentment; you needed to know if the name of his club meant something or if it was just another move in the Game.

You scoff at yourself in the darkness of Brooklyn’s streets. You acted like a teenager, like the foolish kid that ran these very same streets, barefoot and radiant. You let yourself get swept up in the rush of being back home, in the nostalgia of what was and what could’ve been, and let it affect your work.

That is not something you can afford anymore. You owe your family to take back Manhattan’s throne form the Rumlow’s, even if it costs you…

 _It won’t cost anything. Bucky and I…it is all a memory now. All that it is._ You tell yourself, teeth gritted and anger coursing through you as you walk into your apartment.

The small strip of paper on your desk taunts you.

_Miss Margaret Carter, xxx-xxx-xxxx_

Your father’s most trusted staff member slipped the number into your hand as you were leaving this morning, after selecting the clothes you would take to add to the closet in your apartment, alongside some of your father’s Captains addresses and files.

When you looked at him in question for his actions, he just smiled in that way you remember throughout your whole childhood, kind eyes and a knowing glint in his gaze, and patted your carefully styled hair.

_Your family changed the Bratva. Don’t let the Bratva change your family, Captain._

You had smiled, and thanked him, but the phone number was left unused, the piece of paper ignored for the sake of the mission.

Forcing yourself to ignore it once again, resisting the pull to call the woman that was once your bestfriend and hear her advice, even if it is to tell you to back off or risk a bullet between your eyes.

You don’t have much time to ponder on it, a loud knocking on your front door pulling you from your thoughts. You open the door, barefoot and still on your formal dress, ready to tell off whoever is at the door at nearly one in the morning, but stop short when you see the man at the other side.

Jacket long forgotten, shirt rolled up to his elbows, hair ruffled and begging your fingers to run through the soft locks, and eyes bright, albeit dazed; Bucky stands on your doorstep.

It takes you a second to get over your surprise, the way you feel like you have stepped into the past, because although the man in front of you is more muscular and definitely more ragged than the boy you knew, he almost looks the same.

“Bucky,” The name leaves your lips before you can even stop yourself. The question that follows tearing a crack in your armor that you wish he does not pick up on, nor the concern in your voice, “Have you been drinkin’?”

________

_The familiar knock on your door sounds exactly at the agreed time, and you open your door with a big smile._

_Bucky stands on the other side with a matching one of his own, hands in his pockets and stance bashful as he looks at you._

_“You came.” You whisper, even though you don’t have to, even though the time for hiding, for sneaking in and out, for looking over your shoulders is over._

_“Yeah,” Bucky breathes back, a disbelieving edge on his voice. You do not blame him, you never thought you’d be getting here in the first place. “Couldn’t leave my girl alone on her first night away from home, now, could I?”_

________

“Who the hell do ya think you are?” He asks as soon as the door opens, a fire behind his eyes you only saw few times in all the years you knew him.

His voice brings you out of your memory in a rush, forcing you back to the present and the world with the consequences of your actions you have to live in.

Still, you keep your gaze firmly on his, and straighten your back in defiance, a learn habit from years playing the Game.

“I know who I am. Question is, am I the person you thought me to be?” You snarl back, “I’m sorry if I don’t fit your expectations, Barnes, but I won’t lose sleep over it.”

Bucky shakes his head in disbelief, a small hint of a smile, a genuine one, tugging at his lips. His voice is still disdainful as he answers,

“You haven’t changed a bit, have ya’? Still expectin’ everyone and their dog to lay on the floor so you don’t stain your pretty shoes, aren’t ya’, princess?”

“If you are looking for a fight, Barnes, go for the Triad. They will hesitate to kill you for longer than I will.” You move to close the door on him, but his hand reaches up and grabs your forearm, stopping you. The strength is not even there on his grip, but for some reason you do not tug your arm off his grasp, even as he lets himself into your place, walking even closer.

Bucky towers over you as he breathes, eyes going for a second to your lips before travelling back up to meet your own gaze, “Kill me, angel?”

You hate the effect he has on you, you hate that only the sight of him at your door brought back memories you thought buried so long ago.

“What do you want, Barnes?”

He hums as he gets closer to you, his body so close to yours you can feel the warmth of his skin permeating into yours. “Hmm, there’s many things I want, doll.”

You say nothing, not trusting your voice not to quiver as electricity spreads through your body at the sound of his voice, leaving every bit of you quivering like an open nerve.

Bucky takes a deep breath, and continues,

“Not one soul in the whole’a Brooklyn would dare do somethin’ like what ya’ did in the club, princess,” He purrs, hand still holding your arm, but the grip is much gentler. Bucky leans in even closer, trapping your body between his and the wall, and lowers his head to talk right into your ear, “’Wonder if you’re still that daring when I have ya’ moanin’ out my name.”

_Remember the Game. He plays it well. Don’t let him distract you._

You put up a smile, free hand tracing the line of his vest over his shirt.

“If I remember correctly, Barnes, you got a kick outta me putting you in your place.”

His breathy and sneering laugh makes a shiver go down your spine, the musky scent of his cologne and what you would guess to be the metallic smell of a gun in contact with skin making you dizzy.

Still, you put up a show, let the Siren take place and look at him through your lashes when he speaks,

“That was before, princess. You’d be surprised at how much things changed while ya’ were playin’ house with Brock Rumlow.”

“Jealousy does not look good in you, sweetheart.” You tease back, and only the certainty that even buzzed like he is Bucky would notice the touch, you refrain from checking the reddish mark on his neck that looks like lipstick to see if it smudges. To see if there was someone else, either someone left wanting or someone that made _him_ want.

But you don’t. This is another part of the mission. All that it is.

“’Sides, you are awfully confident on your ability to charm me, Barnes. If I remember correctly…” You start, but are stopped short when Bucky presses a wet kiss right behind your ear, making your knees buckle. His voice runs like silk over your skin as he contradicts on a murmur,

“If I remember correctly, doll, and trust me, I _do_ , you get all hot and bothered when I’m around.”

“Oh, please.” You scoff, thought the sound sounds weak to your own ears, your heart beating furiously against your chest, your face hot and your lips dry. But you’ll be damned if you let him know.

“Still denyin’ it, sugar?” He purrs, getting even closer to you, hard edges pressing against your curves and forcing you to be pressed slightly harder against the wall. His eyes bore into yours, a mix of defiance and heat tainting the grey-blue orbs. “You tryin’ to tell me you don’t want me, doll?”

Bucky sneaks his leg between you, thigh pressing up against you and forcing a choked gasp from your mouth before you can bite your lips to contain the sound.

You hear his gravely chuckle on your ear, mocking, as he already gets the answer to his question. Another faint kiss is pressed to your neck, this time a little lower, and a small whine leaves your lips at the sensation of his lips on your heated skin.

Hating the faint weakness you showed, you growl as you look up at him, feeling heat curl in your lower body at the _ravenous_ way he is staring at your mouth, your lower lip still trapped under your own teeth.

Not missing a beat, you let your nails scratch at the hair on the back of his neck, and raise on your tiptoes, slanting your mouth over his.

His hands do not hesitate, bringing you even closer to his body as his teeth bite down roughly on your lower lip. You hide the gasp in your kiss, delighting in the way his groan reverberates through his chest when you pull lightly at his short hair.

Both of you stumble through the apartment, your legs wrapped around his hips and his hands on your ass as he presses his erection against your core, your path to the bedroom interrupted a few times when you take control of the kiss, when you press down against him, when you rake your nails over his back; forcing grunted moans out of his lips and prompting him to stop and press you against any surface near you before continuing.

Clothes are quick to disappear, and before you know it, with few words other than murmurs of consent exchanged, you are drowning and forgetting everything that isn’t his skin on yours, his mouth on your body, his eyes boring into your own as you lose yourself in him, not the past, not the present, _him_.

________

Bucky lays on his stomach next to you, back glistening with a thin layer of sweat in the dim light of the room. You watch with lazy eyes as his torso expand and contracts with his heavy breaths, before your hand rises between you, tracing softly over the wide expanse of bruises on his side and part of his back you cannot believe you didn’t notice before.

“Triad really did a number on you, didn’t they?” You ask, remembering dazedly about the file you read on the heist gone wrong last week.

Bucky doesn’t answer for a few seconds, but when he does, is to get up from the bed and scoff at your words, face turned away from you.

“Skip the bedside manners, princess,” He grumbles, unbothered by his own nakedness as he walks from the bed to his pants, slipping them on without as much as a glance to you where you still lay in bed. “I don’t need the usual Siren procedure. I know who I’m playing with.”

The words sting way more than you let on, but you tell yourself over and over again that you are not the same girl from Brooklyn, that you are not so easily reachable anymore. That if he wants to see the Siren, he can.

“Thank you for saving me the trouble, Barnes,” You purr back, laning back in the pillows and forcing your eyes to close in faked contempt. As you hear him stop near the door, a slight hesitance on his stance, you add, “Do me a favor and stay silent about this? Wouldn’t want Brock worrying about nothin’.”

When the door closes behind him it is that you finally let your eyes open to the dark room, and you ignore the sting in your eyes as you walk to the shower, intending to wash off his mark on you, if that is even possible.

________ 

In the wee hours of the morning you give in, head aching from turning words and events over and over in your head, jaw aching from the times you clenched it to keep emotions at bay, even if you remain in the privacy of your apartment.

As the phone rings you have to contain the urge to hang up and pretend you were never this weak, but finally the voice answers, groggy and scratchy with the remnants of sleep.

“Hello?”

“Peggy. I’m home, I was wondering if we could meet.”

A beat of silence, a murmur in a deeper voice than her own, and then…

“Yes, of course. I think it’s the least you owe me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am done with the chess metaphors, I suck at them. They didn’t last long, did they? If you have any, please send them, I wanna hear them!  
> Love, Luce.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your meeting with Peggy, after eight years of regret and resentment, can only go so well. Can a surprise addition to the encounter shorten the distance between you and your former best friend?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think, this is one of my first works after my impromptu hiatus, and I wanna know what the response is! Please!

You cannot help the nervous way you keep twisting your fingers where they rest folded together on your lap. Your hair is pulled in a simple hairstyle, not too classy but not too simple, a style to accompany the simple summer dress grazing your thighs with its flowy skirt.

You sit on one of the outside tables in the restaurant, the midday sun warming your skin as it shines over the city you once called home. Back straight, lipstick well on place and eyes carefully placed on the book in your hands as if to conceal the fact that you are waiting with baited breath for Peggy to arrive. Because that’s the thing, isn’t it? To put on a mask, paint a measured and calm woman sitting where you are; to hide the way your gaze pleads to look for your best friend in the crowd, the way your hands tremble and your knee bounces up and down.

The sound of heels approaching, with a marching beat you learned to recognize as a teenager, makes you raise your eyes from the book you were not reading anyways.

Peggy Carter struts towards you in all her glory. Soft pink lipstick on her lips, brown eyes set with a mix of emotion and coldness on your own, and back straight as she walks, demanding the attention a woman like her is easy to attract. Not in lust, at least not all the time, but in respect, in distant awe.

“Y/N.” She greets, polite smile on her lips as she takes a seat in front of you.

“Hello, Peggy.”

“You are back in Brooklyn, then,” You hum, without saying anything, and nod. She regards you coldly, and asks, “To stay?”

She already knows the answer, and you are aware of it despite her attempts at distracting you from it. Carter was never one to beat around the bush, one to play the Game.

No matter how much James Barnes may have tried to teach her how to dance among pawns and take down towers, she would never be better than you at it.

And neither would he.

“Yes.” You answer either way, a small, gentle smile on your lips.

The British woman nods once, seemingly at a loss for words, but thankfully the waitress comes to pick up your order, granting you a break to take in the woman in front of you, the one you called your best friend once, the one you haven’t seen in nearly eight years.

There’s the hint of lines in her face, the trace of bags under her eyes. You wish it didn’t worry you as much as it does.

You order a tea and some pastries, while Peggy does the same, although her taste in the tea, as always, differs from your own.

“You look good, Peg.”

“I cannot say the same, honestly.”

The dismissive way she speaks leaves you taken aback for a second.

“What?”

The woman presses her red lips on a thin line, considering her words as her dark eyes skim over your clothes and posture.

“You look…too polished.” She concedes at the end. A rue smile stretches your lips as you scoff.

“I have to be. I am the head of the family now, even if the Bratva won’t admit it.”

“Is that what you are here for? To get the Bratva to see you, to get back your family’s name?” Peggy’s voice is distant, her eyes calculating, her whole posture screaming she wants to prod and test until she finds a fault.

But there’s something about the way she twists her fingers together, something about the small give of her practiced façade that makes you think she still sees a bit of her former best friend in you.

The realization shouldn’t be as comforting as it is.

“I’m here because…I couldn’t stay there anymore, Peg. I always knew what I wanted for my family, for myself. I feared I was further and further away from that objective every day. I couldn’t…what was sacrificed for my family’s goal cannot be for naught.”

Your words ring truer than you expected, your heart beating wildly in your chest, eyes stinging weakly at the honesty behind your own words, at the truth you have denied yourself for far too long.

_And it was not only my father’s life that I have sacrificed for the cause._

Peggy stays silent for a few seconds, mulling over your words in the same way she has always done. After a few moments of silence, she finally speaks:

“You did what you did eight years ago to save your family, to protect it. I tried understanding it, understanding you. I would have done the same, I too would kill and die for _my_ family.

Her brown eyes remain on yours as she pauses, taking a sip of her drink.

“The issue here is, I thought you were my family, we all thought you were our family. And you left, just like that,” The snapping of her fingers rings loud in your ears, “When a lastname was at stake, you didn’t hesitate to turn your back at us.”

“Peggy, I didn’t side with the Rumlow’s,” You sigh, a part of you repeating promises of a long time ago, only with different words, maybe, only with a different finality behind them.

_“Bucky, I am trying to choose what is best for my family. I cannot refuse Brock’s offer.”_

_“He will not be happy having you only as his ally, Princess.”_

_A breath that seems not to fill your lungs._

_“I know.”_

_There’s a slight clench of his jaw, a moment where his eyes wander off to the side, not able -or willing- to hold your gaze any longer._

_You rush ahead, a few steps and your hands finding a home on his chest. Your eyes desperately search his as you whisper, as certainly as you ever have._

_“It’s all part of the Game. He will learn to trust me, I will get what I want.”_

_“And leave him.” Bucky finishes for you, and although trepidation and the sinking feeling of having already lost the war fill your insides, you nod._

_“Yes.” You whisper, still trying to find his gaze, although a part of you whispers of what you could find there._

_Bucky’s hands find yours, calloused fingers enclosing over yours, and squeezing once before he pushes your hands away, taking a step back._

_“Then finish the Game with me, Princess. You already know I can’t give you what you want.”_

Swallowing past the knot on your throat that memories put there, you find the distant gaze of the woman that once was your confidant, your best friend, your advisor, and insist, “You have to believe me, I was never on their side. When they lost Brooklyn…”

“When they lost Brooklyn, the city fell into chaos. And you didn’t return.” She snaps back, curtly.

You stay silent, because you can still feel as if it happened yesterday, the weight in your chest, the way your heart plummets to your feet, when you remember the night Brooklyn fell out of Rumlow’s hands. The night almost every Captain loyal to your father was killed, executed. The night you had to hold yourself back, leaving claw marks and tearstains on the idea you had to let go of, on the impulse of coming back home, on checking if there was this certain name among the dead.

You stay silent, because you were too much of a coward, and because what you did was never enough, not for this city, not for the people you considered family.

“I know you sent Barton in, and that you were behind Stark’s affiliation with the remaining Bratva in the city, we amongst them. But it wasn’t enough.”

“Peggy…”

“The Triad almost killed Bucky that night, Y/N! I had to take turns to sleep on my own home for weeks, I thought…I thought Steve was not coming back every time I saw him leave.

Slender fingers pinch at the bridge of her nose, eyes closed and Peggy takes a few breaths as she carefully puts the mask back on.

“I didn’t need the bloody Princess of Brooklyn sending her aid, I needed my friend! We all needed you then and you weren’t here!” She finishes in a rash whisper.

“Do you want me to say I am sorry, Peggy!?” You snap back, louder than you intended, louder than it was _proper._ You almost scoff at yourself, still living as a living chess piece, always dancing and playing the Game. “Because I won’t!”

The brunette narrows her eyes, a cold fury settling over her. She leans back on her chair, red lips pursed.

“I want to know what you want, other than to open old wounds.”

A part of you wants to yell at her, ask her why she thinks they - _he_ \- were the only ones hurt when you left, the only ones with something to lose eight years ago, demand of her to understand you were not the only one who made a choice.

_You hear footsteps behind you, and you quickly wipe away the tears, blinking as you try to focus your gaze on the drink in front of you._

_“It is just me, Captain.” Natasha whispers as she finds a seat beside you, her hands taking a hold of the whiskey decanter and serving herself a glass, that she quickly downs._

_Still, the Game and its rules too engraved in you, in who you are now; you go through the motions, and straighten your back, clear your throat._

_“It is a little bit late to be stalking these halls for secrets, Natasha.” You answer instead, ignoring her green eyes searching your face in search of weakness._

_“So the Princess of Brooklyn leaves her throne empty to ally with Brock Rumlow, and you expect me not to try and understand her?”_

_“Brooklyn is still very much mine,” You hiss back, bloodshot eyes meeting her own. “Don’t doubt it, Miss Romanova.”_

_“Some voices whisper a new head bears the crown, Captain.”_

_“And that one too will roll when I return.” You down the rest of your drink, standing up._

_“Even if it is one of your old allies?”_

_For a second, as sharp and brief as the edge of a blade, you want to say that your family remains your own, despite blood spilled and distance put between you._

_But you know, as the blade takes a home in your heart, splitting it in two but never remaining, not letting the blood flow and cleanse the wound; that those are not the ways of the Game, of the Bratva._

_So you leave the Princess behind, and take on the mantle of the Avtoritet, of the Captain._

_“No one is irreplaceable in the Game, Miss Romanova, you better than I understand it.”_

_And a part of you fears you just let Y/N die, for the sake of your family._

So you take a deep breath, and face her dark eyes,

“I wish I could have done things differently, but given the choice again, I would have to choose the same path,” You offer instead, “Does that make sense?”

The British woman only nods and remains impassive.

“It’s all I can ask for.”

________

It’s after a couple of hours of exchanged stories, laughs and tears where you and Peggy remain in the restaurant, empty cups of coffee and tea scattered around you and a new but somehow old familiarity settling over you that you lean over the table and whisper, quietly, cautiously.

“What happened with the Triad, was Brock-…”

“I don’t think this is the place to talk business.” A voice softly announces behind you.

Turning to face a tall and muscular man, words about minding his own business are at the tip of your tongue; but there’s a familiar glint in his blue eyes, a gentleness in his smile, that make you stop dead on your tracks.

You are standing up before you even realize it. He wears a simple attire of black pants, dark brown vest and white shirt, his hair combed in that awful, awful way you still remember from your teenage years.

“Steve.” You gasp, a sincere smile curving your lips upwards as you take a few steps towards him. His bright smile seems to only widen, and for some reason the sincerity behind it makes your heart plummet to your stomach.

His long arms wrap around you, and you have to stand on the tips of your toes to wrap your own around his shoulders.

“Welcome back, kid.”

You pull back, hands still on his broad shoulders, and you take him in with what you assume is the impression of a goldfish.

“H-How…? You were…”

“Smaller?” He chuckles, and you can only nod dumbly. “It’s a long story.”

A disbelieving laugh leaves your lips, your hands moving to cradle his face. He smiles radiantly back at you, making tears prickle at your eyes.

“When I read about your improved health I thought-…I never imagined you would end up like some sort of superhuman, Stevie.” You laugh incredulously again, shaking your head as you take in his form.

“So you _have_ been keeping tabs on us.” He states as a confirmation to some hypothesis of his, an arm around your shoulders and bringing you to him as he smiles down at you.

You lower your eyes for a second, before you take a deep breath and whisper,

“These streets are not the only reason I returned, Stevie.”

The blond man presses a kiss to your hair.

“It’s not me you have to prove it to.”

A sigh, and then,

“Peggy hates me.”

“I can be swayed.” She replies form her table, although a gentle smile curves at her lips as she takes in the two of you, and you could swear her eyes are a little misty.

“She hates what you represent,” Steve corrects simply, and when you respond with an affronted frown, he chuckles again, and explains, “You and I both the Siren is not the girl we all grew up with, sweetheart.”

“The Siren is who will get my family to win the war, Stevie.”

“Really? Why are you here, then? You know these streets are Bucky’s now.”

You take a step back, more to distance yourself from the thoughts of the girl that ran with wolves, the one that had Manhattan itself thinking she was nothing but a trophy, the one that learned to lie and play the Game before being someone herself; because what she, what the Siren, think…

_I could take these streets if I get Bucky back on my side. But I would need him blind. I would need him to love me again._

“Exactly. I suggest you tell your hubby that, Princess.” A familiar voice threatens from behind you. You turn around, but not before catching the glare Steve is directing to his childhood friend over your head, presumably in response to the coldness in Bucky’s voice.

“Buck…” Steve starts, but the brunet is already advancing towards you.

So, you put a smile on your face, and stand up straighter, facing him with a mocking expression.

You make sure your voice is a purr as you answer, “I won’t. Brock has no need to worry about Brooklyn. It is not his territory.”

Bucky smiles, condescending as he stares you down, “Neither is Manhattan, doll, and he seems to run it pretty much by himself.”

A part of you wants to slap the smug expression off his face, but that part of you, the wild girl with bare face and bare feet running the streets of Brooklyn at nightfall; is quickly quietened by the woman forged from scorching metal amongst ballrooms in upper Manhattan.

Your expression turns serious as you cock your head to the side.

“What I told you eight years ago still stands, Barnes. I would have thought you of all people wouldn’t believe the lies I tell.”

His response is quick and brash,

“I don’t care.”

“What?”

Bucky takes another step closer to you, forcing you to lift your head to look him in the eye. The coldness in his grey-blue orbs makes a weakening cold run down your spine.

“I don’t care who ya’ have decided to lie to this time, I don’t care what poor fool ya’ chose to have believe that you can love them. I don’t care what ya’ are doin’ here. I. Don’t. Care.

The finality in his words, the controlled anger that coils around his body, making the muscles on his shoulders tight and his cheek twitch with the strength he is using to grind his teeth, they keep you silent.

Long enough for Bucky to look down at you, a sneer on his lips.

“In case I haven’t made myself clear: I want ya’ away from me and my family.”

You respond to the apparent hate and disdain in his eyes the only way you know how, the one way you were taught. Live your life as a Game, every blow is only an opportunity to move.

“Did I really hurt you that bad, Barnes? One would think-…”

He interrupts you swiftly, though.

“This has nothing to do with us, and all to do with the fact that ya’ quite literally took to sleepin’ with the enemy when ya’ left us, Princess.”

Keeping the smile on your face, you start purring another taunt, “Jealousy-…”

“This is not me being jealous, Y/N!”

_“I am not tryin’ to outsmart ya’, Princess,” He bites out, turning his back to you and walking directly to the kitchen of the small apartment. “Ya’ wouldn’t have caught up with it if I was.”_

_You watch with narrowed eyes as he serves himself a couple of fingers of the scotch you keep there since his birthday, offering you silently a glass that you decline._

_“You staked your claim like a fucking dog in front of the most influential Captains on my father’s side. Don’t try telling me that wasn’t a grab for pow-…”_

_“Y/N, ya’ know I wouldn’t-…”_

_You interrupt him with anger shining along with tears in your eyes. Your voice is a hiss, but you don’t think is your tone that makes Bucky stop in his tracks._

_“Then what is it, goddammit!? Because you ignore me for weeks with excuses and fucking lies, and then show up at my father’s party and show me off at your side, like I…” Forcing your voice back into your control, you clench your jaw and spit out, “Like you are one of_ them _.”_

_Women dressed sharply, but with tongues and wills as dull as they can be made. Girls with perfect posture and perfect record but with hidden scars. Wives with round bellies and complacent smiles, but scarves and makeup hiding marks of a man’s pride._

_The world you grew up in, the world your mother and father taught you to have eating out of your hand, taught you to keep yourself above._

_And not even for Bucky would you bow your head to what the Bratva expect out of you._

_He is immediately taken aback by your words, something resembling hurt in his eyes before he hardens his expression, downing the glass quickly and turning to you again,_

_“I know I’m gonna have to give ya’ up sooner or later, doll, it’s not…it doesn’t get easier.” He mumbles as he runs a hand through already messy brown locks._

_“Give me up? Bucky…”_

_There’s still frustration, there’s still anger bubbling underneath the surface as he paces a few times in front of you, but there’s a duller, almost hurting stain to his stance that puts you on edge._

_“I know I hurt ya’, and I’m so sorry, baby, but…” A sigh, and you don’t miss the way his eyes look over your dress and your careful hairdo before continuing, “Ya’ belong with those people, ya’ see?” His eyes search yours, a strange sort of stubborn defeat shining in them, “I tried steppin’ back, thought it would make it easier but…”_

_“But you still came to my father’s party.” You finish for him, eyes still narrowed as you face him, as you watch him stop his pacing and pour himself another drink._

_Bucky shrugs in response, once again not looking at you when he answers,_

_“What can I say, doll? I’m a selfish sonuva bitch, I know they can give ya’ the life ya’ deserve, and that’s one I couldn’t even dream of, but…as long as ya’ don’t kick me to the curb, I’m stayin’.”_

_“Are you, really?” You insist, eyes narrowed and your back straight. You hate how much of the woman that the Bratva playing the Game with your family is standing in front of Bucky right now, but…maybe it’s the easiest way to avoid getting hurt, pretending they can’t get to you._

_Bucky frowns deeply, as if truly he cannot understand why you think he wouldn’t want to stay for a second. You push on anyways, though, weeks of doubt, and hurt, and anger taking over you as you continue,_

_“Because you are the one that stepped back, you are the one that didn’t talk to me. And I’m going to have to deal with my father and his men thinking I…I am what they want me to be, because you wanted a show out of how I’m still yours even after you ignore me for weeks!”_

_“D’ya maybe think I just don’t want those…those fuckers leering at my girl?”_

_You scoff, “Maybe if you didn’t keep making excuses to avoid ‘your girl’, Barnes, then you wouldn’t have reasons to worry.”_

_“I am not making excuses!”_

_You raise your hands in the air, your clutch forgotten somewhere on the floor behind you, “Then what_ are _you doing? ‘Cause something made you believe this way about us, about you, but you won’t tell me shit about it,” Equal parts of anger and hurt blossom in your voice when you add in a whisper, “We were supposed to be partners.”_

_“Princess…” Bucky starts, a warning to drop the topic in his voice, hiding a plea to not force both of your demons out to play. You are quick to interrupt him with a hiss of your own, however._

_“Don’t you dare pretend you are not hiding something from me.”_

_Something cold and detached falls over Bucky though, and he doesn’t reply with another heated response. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans on the wall._

_“Why didn’t ya’ tell me about your meeting with Brock Rumlow?”_

_Your response is nothing but a breath leaving your lips, a disbelieving question,_

_“What?”_

_“Ya’ heard me, doll.”_

_“How do you know about that?”_

_“Would you rather I didn’t?” You stay silent, eyes wide and set on his narrowed, distant ones, “Looks like I’m not the only one hidin’ somethin’.”_

“It is about your pride, Bucky, don’t you try to fucking lie to me,” You bite your tongue when more hurtful words fill your mouth like poison, and tell yourself you are not trying to start again ages-old wars, but trying to keep your city safe instead. Whichever one it may be. “If you weren’t so stubborn and hell-bent on believing I want to betray you, you would realize I am here to help you.”

“Help me?” His mocking laugh makes something within you hurt, like a reopened wound, “Sweetheart, I need soldiers, not liars.”

You reply by slapping a few bills on the table, making sure to sneer his way as you walk past him,

“Don’t you dare think holding a champagne flute and toasting lies to fools makes my aim any less steady when blood needs to be spilled, Barnes.”

Your back is turned to the now silent group, your shoes hitting the pavement rhythmically as you walk away, your back straight and your chin held high, despite the ache left behind in your heart from Bucky’s words.

“Y/N!” Peggy calls from behind you, prompting you to stop and turn to see the British woman walk to you, a defiance in her posture that you are glad is not directed to you.

You both turn to watch the two men, a small, resigned smile on Steve’s lips; hardness still behind Bucky’s grey-blue eyes.

“See you at home, Peggy.” Steve sighs, making a part of you wonder how often it is that he has to deal with Peggy and Bucky butting their heads into each other like stubborn rams.

“Probably.” She states.

“Probably?” You whisper back at her, “Peggy…”

She interlocks her arm with yours, though, sealing the words about how this is dangerous and stupid behind your lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This does not have much Bucky action, but OOOOHHH next chapter is gonna be gud, trust me. Hope you liked it, and thank you soooo much for reading!
> 
> Random thought of the chapter: I hate that they didn’t keep Steve’s awful side hairstyle from the beginning of CATFA, it was so dorkly cute. Hence its reappearance in this chap.  
> Please let me know what you think of this chapter, please, even if it is to tell me you don’t like it! It really keeps me going and motivates me to write! Thank you!  
> I am kinda slow with Bucky’s PoV, but I’m gonna try to get back on schedule and push through it soon!! Love ya!


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